Negative Space
by yumi michiyo
Summary: Modern AU. A photograph taken by chance drives Miroku to search for the girl in the picture - but there is more to her than meets the eye. Sango/Miroku, Inuyasha/Kagome.
1. One: Development

**Author's Note: **Aamalie, if you're reading this, I officially hate you (and your little clock). LOL.

**Real Author's Note: **Right. This is my foray into modern!AUs; a little project on the backburner for almost 3 months (that's an age to me). Normal disclaimers apply.

* * *

Miroku was bored.

He lounged at his desk, one cigarette dangling from his lip, both hands behind his head. A slew of photographs remained strewn over the desk where they had been tossed the previous day. He hesistated for only a moment before lifting lanky jeans-clad legs onto the desk to join the mess.

"Hey, Miroku."

"Yes, Inuyasha?" he responded without even turning his head; he could practically visualise the silver-haired man sitting at the desk directly behind him, a look of annoyance in place.

"You keep that up, the boss'll have your head." Inuyasha returned his attention to the glowing computer screen in front of him, periodically rotating his glare between Miroku and the monitor. A plain blue bandana was tied neatly over his head, contrasting the bright gold of his eyes.

He removed the cigarette, waved it vaguely in the other man's direction. "Not lit, don't worry. The boss' precious 'no smoking' rule remains unbroken." The photographer jammed it back into his mouth and let it dangle from his lips.

"It's not that stuck-up arsehole I'm worried about. I can't stand the smell of that thing."

Miroku's attention shifted to the framed photograph sitting on one end of his cluttered desk; a pretty blonde woman pouted seductively, her arms wrapped around a smirking Miroku's shoulders.

"Miss her, do ya?"

Miroku looked up. "What?"

"Your gaijin girlfriend – whatever her name was," grinned Inuyasha. "Man, she was hot, curves in all the right places. I wouldn't mind dating her."

"Emily-chan, my _ex-girlfriend_, was taller than me," said Miroku. "And she had _work_ done, if you know what I mean."

His friend shrugged. "You're damn fussy, bouzu. Doesn't matter a whit to me."

Miroku snorted at the use of the nickname. "Bouzu? I was only considering staying in that monastery for a few months, not the entire becoming-a-monk business. Besides, I'd be the worst monk on the planet, what with this – " he gestured at the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, " – and the fact I drink and like my women."

"Precisely."

A silence fell, broken by the dark-haired man's derisive snort.

"You're a real wit, Inuyasha, you know. I must have been blessed by the gods to be able to befriend the wittiest hanyou in Japan," said Miroku under his breath.

Inuyasha's head snapped up. "Shut up, dumbass," he hissed. "I'm not supposed to exist."

Miroku had stumbled upon his best friend's secret purely by accident while they were in college together; he had brought beer to Inuyasha's dormitory only to find a grumpy man resembling his friend with black hair and violet eyes. He later found out that Inuyasha's father – whom Inuyasha had told him had left him and his mother when he was born – was youkai.

"_Wait. So – your father's youkai... that makes you – "_

" – _hanyou. Yeah." Inuyasha swigged liberally from the can, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The old man was filthy rich, though. He provided for me and my mother.. But he died a few years back."_

"_Don't bother with your condolences," cut in the hanyou as Miroku opened his mouth to speak again. "I never knew the old bastard. Apparently I've got an older brother somewhere who hates my guts."_

_His friend grinned. "And here I was thinking you were the most rebellious guy on campus because you dyed your hair silver. And wore the most appalling headgear ever to leave the United States."_

_Inuyasha punched Miroku's arm – not as hard as he was expecting. "Once a month during the night of the full moon I turn completely human." He tugged at one black forelock. "Like tonight."_

"_Fascinating... so all those legends about youkai and magic were true."_

"_Not all of it, just some." The hanyou walked over to the window and peeked through the curtains. "Ah – sunrise. Here we go..."_

_A change came over Inuyasha. His long hair lightened into silver; the intense violet of his eyes lightened into gold; his fingernails lengthened into claws; most interesting of all, a pair of white dog ears poked out of his hair on top of his skull._

_He yawned, exposing white fangs. "Damn. Hate it everytime that happens." Inuyasha rubbed his eyes. "So now you know – you better keep this a secret, Miroku."_

_The dark-haired man surveyed his friend carefully. "Of course."_

They had been firm friends ever since that night, all the way up to graduation and employment by the same newspaper, working as photographers. Inuyasha was in the sports department; until about a year ago, Miroku had been in news before being transferred to lifestyle – specifically, the society pages. Needless to say, he did not enjoy his job, judging by the amount of unsorted photographs littering his desk.

Inuyasha snorted and cracked his knuckles noisily, his bandana accidentally slipping to reveal the tip of one ear. He quickly pushed it back into place after a furtive glance around.

"Keh. Back to the subject, idiot. Loafing as obviously as that may be brave but stupid. Our dear boss is so anal-retentive, his head's shoved right up his – "

"You may not want to finish that sentence, Hayashi-san," interrupted a cold voice. Tsukino Sesshoumaru had glided over unnoticed, an intense expression of dislike etched on his face. "Miyasuzu-san, my office. Now."

Miroku quickly tossed his cigarette into the trash bin and hopped off the chair, walking after Sesshoumaru. Inuyasha hunched over his laptop and muttered a few curses under his breath when he thought they were out of earshot.

"Damned bastard moves so quietly – he must be youkai! Would explain why he's too fucking pretty for a man."

He pretended not to hear that last remark; he was the editor, after all – the supreme being at the newspaper – and it was beneath him to squabble with one of his employees. Sesshoumaru swept along the corridor, completely disregarding the stir he was causing merely by his physical presence.

The editor's eyes slid sideways, quietly appraising Miroku. The man had lost some weight since the last time they had been this close; his unshaven face looked more gaunt. More worryingly, there was a haunted cast to the eyes Sesshoumaru did not like the look of.

* * *

Comfortably ensconced in his plush office, Sesshoumaru gazed at Miroku through the arch of his steepled fingers; the man sat across from him, a guarded expression in his eyes.

"Miyasuzu-san, I cannot have you wasting company time." The editor's tone was icy; the photographer shifted a little in his seat. "Care to explain what you think you were doing?"

"I couldn't stand that shit any longer," growled Miroku. "All those shots of vapid, self-obsessed society airbags... and you expect me to pick out the best?"

Sesshoumaru rested his hands on his desk. "You are a society photographer. That is your job."

He had enough on his plate as it was, dealing with the incident involving Miroku and the subsequent media backlash. The other newspapers, happy to smell weakness in one of their most hated rivals, had thrown all their ammunition at them. The editor had even heard rumours of a tabloid reporter tailing him around, trying to dig up some dirt on him. Even now, the occasional reference to the debacle popped up now and then.

"You know very well I never wanted this job!" Miroku was angry now, his violet eyes almost black. "Damn it, shachou, take me off this department! Put me back on the front line!"

"You know I can't do that, Miyasuzu-san," said Sesshoumaru, his voice a shade calmer. "Even though you were one of the best photographers I have ever seen, I will not deny that. Not since that incident last year..."

The photographer ran a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. The editor leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Silvery-white hair, finer and more luminescent than Inuyasha's cascaded over his immaculate suit.

"... Take the rest of the week off." The commanding look was back in Sesshoumaru's amber eyes; even Miroku dared not disobey when his boss assumed this expression. "When you come back in next Monday, I expect your usual standard of work. Now leave my office."

The photographer left, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Miroku walked back to his desk, ignoring the babble that had erupted around him. He had never been a popular colleague; the affair that had transpired last year had only served to make him the subject of hot gossip. As he passed the sea of shifty eyes, he wondered whether they were speculating on whether he had been fired.

Inuyasha was waiting for him, pretending to be engrossed in editing and cataloguing his latest batch of photographs. He abandoned the pretence when Miroku appeared and sat heavily down in his chair.

"What happened, Miroku?"

Miroku reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a carton of cigarettes, jamming one in the corner of his mouth. "I'm taking a little holiday." He leaned over, consulting the calendar wedged in between two bulging files. "Shit – it's Tuesday. What am I supposed to do until then?"

"You could eat," suggested Inuyasha wickedly. "You're skinnier than a fucking wench." His hand fell on a glossy magazine tucked in one corner of his desk; a porcelain-skinned woman with long black hair and haughty brown eyes stared coolly out of the cover. The hanyou jabbed the picture. "You could give her a run for her money."

His friend tossed a wad of paper at his head.

"Seriously," he muttered to himself, "what?"

The other man shrugged, already tired of teasing, and returned to his work. "Why don't you go out and take some photos?"

"Wonderful, as though I don't already do that for a living."

"You know what I mean, bastard," answered Inuyasha. "Take some random shots for yourself. Now go, before you annoy the fucking hell out of me." He stared down at the glowing computer screen, lost in thought.

Miroku sat up, smoothing down the front of his shirt. "Can't you string together a sentence without an obscenity?" Picking up his trusty Nikon camera from the peg, he slung it around his neck and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.

_It was going to be a long and painful holiday, _thought Miroku sourly. At least he was grateful Sesshoumaru had not fired him. Goodness knew whether there were any other newspapers in Japan willing to hire a photographer as talented and eccentric as he was.

On the way out, he passed a massive billboard; an image of an old Buddhist monk loomed overhead, a string of prayer beads in his hand. Miroku smirked up at it.

The monk in the photo – Master Mushin – had been a real fraud of a monk. He drank like a fish and had been, in his day, a notorious womaniser. It was amazing the way Miroku had made him look like a perfect saint in the shot; in the background, an old temple building loomed out of the forest. The photo was one of his favourites: the lighting, the angle and the exposure had been perfect. Not an easy task for a perfectionist like he was.

The photographer examined the rest of the poster. It seemed his photograph was being featured as part of an exhibition on Japanese culture.

Miroku shrugged. The assignment, he recalled, had been to capture the disappearing traditional Japanese way of life in photos for a special pullout edition – something Sesshoumaru had assigned him, knowing the photographer's love of traditional Japanese culture. It was fun; he had spent months trekking all over the country, camera in hand, snapping things he had only ever read about in books. Shinto ceremonies, traditional dances, an obscure place in Hokkaido where they still made sake as is had been done five hundred years ago... He still had one last bottle stashed away in his apartment.

He himself had been particularly captivated by Mushin. The last remaining member of an ancient Soto Zen Buddhism order dating back to the Sengoku period, the old monk was a font of wisdom. Miroku had made plans to spend a few months there after the assignment was completed – something Inuyasha never stopped teasing him about.

That had been before the incident, of course. He tore his eyes away from Mushin's serene gaze and refocused on the throngs of people in the street.

It was a long time since he had done street photography. Miroku dropped to one knee, aimed and snapped. Checking the light was where he wanted it too be, he took several more shots in quick succession. He adjusted his grip, making sure his right hand was held at an angle from the camera. It was still healing and he had no wish to jeopardize that.

So far, he was enjoying himself. The buzz of the crowd was music to his ears; it lent a natural slant to the shots he was taking. Now and then he reached up to twiddle the focus knob to zoom in on a few details; a harrassed-looking man with a brightly-coloured bag; a strikingly tall woman, her elaborate hairdo fastened with a butterfly hairpin; a small child licking eagerly at an ice cream; a tanned man, long braided hair cascading down his back, carrying a massive pike – damn cosplayers...

Miroku loved the way each person seemed to tell their own story – even when frozen in a moment. He was getting quite a few good shots today. Hell, he might even be enjoying his mini holiday –

– when someone knocked into his shoulder, sending his cigarette into the gravel underfoot. He cursed under his breath.

"Hey!" he protested, standing up and looking at his unwitting assailant.

"I'm so sorry!" Miroku blinked; the young woman standing in front of him looked vaguely familiar for some reason. She looked like any typical Japanese woman: long black hair swept up in a high ponytail, almond-shaped brown eyes lined with pink eyeshadow, petite build dressed in a conservative black Western suit. The apologetic look on her face was enough to mollify him – he had a soft spot for women. In more ways than one.

"It's alright, miss, no harm done." He cast a despairing look at his cigarette. "I'm sorry... do I know you?"

It was her turn to blink in surprise before scrutinising him. "I don't think so," she said after a pause. Miroku shrugged carelessly. "Never mind, I must have confused you with someone else."

The young woman bowed and then went on her way, preparing to reenter the throng of people. He watched her go, his camera forgotten in his hands when he was struck by an idea.

"Miss!"

She half-turned towards him, on the brink of becoming swallowed up by the crowd.

Click. The camera whirred; it was out of film. Miroku swore.

When he looked up, she was gone, completely engulfed by the mass of people as though she had never been. But she had been there; she had collided with him – his shoulder was still a little sore from the impact. She had been real.

"Well, looks like that's it for the day," he said aloud, letting his camera dangle from the strap around his neck. As he sauntered off in the opposite direction, he wondered why the niggling feeling continued to disturb him. Miroku had seen her before – he was sure of it.

* * *

The relative quiet of his apartment was a welcome relief from the bustle outside – even though it was small by cramped Tokyo standards and still managed to cost him a bomb – but it was his oasis.

Taking up more valuable living space was his minute darkroom – an area cordoned off from the main room by thick, dark curtains. Miroku put down his bag and slipped inside.

Unlike most of his contemporaries, like Inuyasha, the photographer preferred his old Nikon camera and the manual developing of photos to the newer digital cameras. He had one of his own, of course, but he liked the feel of developing and seeing the picture appearing like magic.

He pulled the bottles of solution from the mini fridge and poured a little into the tray; Miroku worked quickly, bathing each photograph until the image began to appear and hanging them up to dry in quick succession.

Slowly, the images formed, ghost-like, on the paper in the tray. Now and then he caught a glimpse of a face, a setting, a splash of light he had been hoping to capture – and here it was, immortalized within a frame.

Miroku grinned. Now he remembered why he did this for a living.

Finally he came to the last photograph on the roll. Miroku's hand hesitated for an instant over the paper – what would the photograph look like?

His fingers shook as he wielded the tongs. The photographer scowled – to think he was a professional. Collecting his thoughts, he gently shook the photograph back and forth.

Vague shadows blossomed across the paper; he could almost distinguish an outline here and there. He leaned closer, ignoring the acrid sting of the developing solution.

At last it appeared. The elegant line of the flowing ponytail framing her face from when she turned her head was the first to be seen; before his eyes, it darkened into black with faint hints of brown from the sunlight. It was a beautiful photograph, by professional standards. He had captured the curve of her cheek, the smooth line of her neck, the mildly surprised look she was casting behind. Around her, the crowd blurred into indistinct lines, contrasting the sharpness of her features.

Miroku did not know why he had not noticed how beautiful she was sooner.

He pored over the photograph, especially the look in her eyes; there was an underlying sadness to them which honestly surprised him. A young woman like that – he guessed she was around his age – should not be bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Tearing his eyes away, he disposed of the excess solution and pushed aside the curtain, letting the fumes disperse.

Miroku was suddenly thirsty; he made a beeline for the kitchen, taking care to wash his hands before he opened the fridge. Cans of beer lined the upper rack; he grabbed one and cracked it open.

He almost wished he had not developed that picture; her face was now burned – more clearly than ever – in his mind's eye. Just who was she, and why did he find her so familiar?

Unanswered questions swirled around his head, filling it and driving out all other thoughts. Miroku tilted his head back and drained the last few drops of beer. He tried to crush the can and winced as a stab of pain traveled up his arm; Miroku hastily tossed it away into the garbage bin.

The young man turned his attention to his hand, walking to the bathroom. He took out a tube of cream from the medicine cabinet and spread the fingers of his right hand.

In the centre of the palm was a raised mass of newly-healed flesh; scar tissue made the entire thing look rough and marked. It had been aggravated by Miroku's attempt to crush the beer can, the pinkish-brown tissue tender to the touch. He grimaced and began massaging his palm, working the cream into the skin.

"Damn, the doctor said it should be alright by now..." grumbled the photographer.

The injury that had resulted in such a horrific scar had been a freak accident; it still made him a little uneasy to think about it. The nightmares, thankfully, had stopped about a month ago.

He put the cream away, flexing his fingers as he picked up his wallet to buy himself some dinner. He had been extraordinarily lucky; the blade had not severed any nerves. The only relic of that night, besides the unsightly scar, was a weakness in his middle fingers which hardly affected his work.

Damn that Sesshoumaru – why couldn't he see that? Apparently treating him as a charity case, his boss had assigned him to society photography – a dead-end job that needed half a brain to do. The socialites were more than happy to throw themselves in front of his camera; with all the compliments he was getting, it was only a matter of time before some of the more empty-headed ones would try to lure him into bed in exchange for their party photos making the front page.

Anger washed over him. His wallet dropped back to the side table, forgotten. Miroku was not hungry any more; he wanted a shower and a long sleep. He did not need to go to work tomorrow, anyway.


	2. Two: Snapshot

_Miroku was alone in the dark, lost and confused. Broken glass crunched noisily underfoot. _

_A dark shadow looming out of nowhere – _

– _a flash of steel –_

– _pain. Throbs of agony radiating through his body, sending his heart racing..._

_His fingers, dark and sticky with blood. Miroku tried to move his right hand, only to find it strangely heavy; a gleaming hand scythe protruded from the back of his hand. It looked as though it belonged there, buried in his flesh. He opened his mouth to scream, only to find he had no voice; the same scythe had torn open his throat._

_As he fell to his knees, he felt compelled to look up – into insane brown eyes. _

_Eyes he found disturbingly familiar._

With a cry, Miroku bolted upright in bed. Cold sweat drenched his body; he ran a shaking hand through sweat-soaked bangs.

"Shit!" So much for thinking the nightmares were at an end. Always the same, always haunting him at night.

He glanced at the clock beside the bed: 7am. So much for his sleeping in.

Miroku slid out of bed and turned on the hot water, letting the soothing warmth wash over his body. Despite having slept – albeit a not very restful sleep – he was tired. And hungry – his stomach growled loudly.

He got dressed and headed out, his camera slung around his neck as an afterthought. _Never know what I might see, _he reasoned.

It was a beautiful day; crisp, clean with a touch of nippiness. Miroku pulled his jacket around him as he headed to the convenience store around the corner.

The bento box was cheap and good; he decided on going to the nearest park to eat his breakfast instead of taking it back home. Parking himself on the bench, he pulled off the plastic cover and began to eat.

The dreams were back with a vengeance, it seemed. Miroku could not remember a time when they had been more vivid than the terrifying visions of the previous night. He shuddered; his fingers were clammy with cold sweat. They felt as though they were soaked in blood; he had to inspect them to make sure.

"Just my luck to encounter a psycho," said the photographer aloud, tucking the chopsticks back into the empty plastic box and tying up the plastic carrier bag.

The case had been truly horrific. An entire family had been slaughtered as they slept in their beds. He would never forget that night.

_Miroku was the first out of the car. Flames rose over the surburban landscape, casting nightmarish light over the faces of the bystanders._

_The cacophony of sounds blurred into nothing; he whipped out his camera, made a few adjustments and snapped away. With luck, his photos would make the front page the next day._

_His job done, the photographer was free to simply watch the inferno._

"_How awful," he muttered. Seeing a harried firefighter nearby, Miroku walked over to him. "What happened here?"_

_The grizzled man shook his head. "We got the call just a while ago; the house was already half-gutted by the time we got here."_

"_The family?"_

_The distant look in the man's eyes told Miroku he was not really listening._

"_Judging from the intensity of the flames, I'd say it was intentional." There was a cracking sound as part of the roof collapsed inward. The man dropped his voice. "The police say – there was bodies in there. The family didn't get out in time."_

_The younger man's face sobered. "Terrible."_

"_I'd say." The firefighter wiped his forehead with the back of one grubby hand. "I don't think I can do this shit any more; it's time for me to retire." He walked away back to the fire engine._

_Miroku decided to explore the house; with a little luck, the story would make tomorrow's headline. He could visualise it: 'Family Tragedy: Arsonist Burns Down House." The garden in the back was well-kept, mostly untouched by the inferno. It only served to remind him of the tragedy that had occurred._

_A cracking sound. He whirled around. "Hello? Who's there?"_

_A shadow, half-hidden by the bushes. Miroku froze._

"_The voices..." A raspy voice; despite its roughness, it clearly belonged to a boy. He stepped forward, the burning house revealing a young face streaked with soot. "Make them stop. I did what they asked me to do, but they won't leave."_

"_Did you come from the house?" Miroku rushed over to the boy's side – _

– _and staggered back as a sickle sank into the palm of his right hand, the point protruding from the other side. It was so sudden; the photographer did not even have time to cry out as he sank to the grass. The youth pulled out the weapon with a sickly squelching sound as Miroku fell._

"_I'm sorry." The youth stepped closer, the bloodied blade poised overhead; tears carved clean tracks down his cheeks. "I... can't stop myself. I – "_

"_Kohaku!"_

_Miroku opened his eyes, sweat trickling down his brow; a girl had staggered out from the back door, equally soot-stained. She could barely walk – she crawled over, seizing the boy's leg._

"_Kohaku, no!"_

_He stopped; the blade hung like a blood-spattered silvery crescent moon over Miroku's head. All he could do was stare at the strange scene._

_The girl's face was wet with tears as well. She kept moaning Kohaku's name over and over as she desperately clung to his leg._

_Just then, before Miroku could pass out from the pain, a jumble of men's voices and shouts told him help had arrived. Hands supported him, held rags to his shaking hand to stanch the bleeding. The policemen tackled the boy, knocking the sickle out of his limp hand and pinning him down. The girl was crying, screaming, fighting the men restraining her._

_To that cacophony the photographer passed out._

_When he next came to, he was strapped to a gurney, being wheeled towards a waiting ambulance. Miroku lifted his head; his hand was swaddled in blood-stained bandages, the pain faded into a distant throb._

_He was too tired to think about what the injury had done for his career. At the moment, all he wanted to do was succumb to the weariness..._

"_No! Don't take my brother away! Kohaku!"_

_The girl was still fighting tooth and nail, trying to get to the boy. Miroku looked into her face, shining with fresh tears – and for the briefest of moments, their eyes met._

_The contact broke when the paramedics loaded the young man onto the ambulance and slammed the doors shut. Having nothing to look for, he fell back into unconciousness._

The accident had indeed set his career back; he ran his thumb over the raised flesh of the scar grimly. The doctors had not been expecting him to be able to use the hand normally again: only his intense desire to return to photography had pushed Miroku past the gruelling physical therapy sessions. He was not completely healed, though; the hand still trembled convulsively now and then.

His pant pocket trilled; he pulled out his handphone. Inuyasha's name flashed across the screen. The young man grinned and pressed the answer key.

"Hello?"

The hanyou's voice sounded loud and clear; Miroku could practically hear the ever-present sarcasm in his friend's voice filter through the line.

"Hey, Miroku, I've been forced to attend this shindig by the boss Friday night. Not a work thing, but he wants me to be there for some shitty reason he won't dignify me with. Some charity fundraiser organised by another rich bitch with nothing better to do, it seems... Are you free? I don't wanna deal with these wenches alone."

"I'm off duty, Inuyasha," said Miroku lazily. "Besides, won't Sesshoumaru send someone else to cover the event? Maybe it'll be Hojo-kun..."

There was a loud, derisive snort. "Keh," declared the hanyou. "You know I don't like that prick. Just come along, bouzu. We don't have to take any pictures or any shit like that, the prick just wants me to show my face. It's a party, there's plenty of food, alcohol and women."

"Women, you say?"

"Practically spilling out of their incredibly low-cut evening gowns, you dirty pervert. I heard from Koharu-san in Fashion that some models are gonna be there."

"Models? Count me in, my friend." Miroku grinned widely; it seemed this enforced holiday was looking up.

"Lech. The party's at eight at the Hilton. Dress code's smart casual. Meet you in the lobby." Inuyasha hung up without even bothering to say goodbye.

The photographer replaced his phone in his pocket and began the walk home.

* * *

Miroku lounged as casually as he could against the marble wall of the Hilton's opulent lobby, tugging on the lapel on his jacket as he waited for Inuyasha. His scarred hand was acting up again; he concealed it under a deep purple glove that matched the colour of his jacket. Hopefully it would be dismissed as a fashion statement.

Not much in the mood for dressing up – thoughts of the mysterious girl in the photograph haunted his every waking moment – the photographer had merely thrown on a dinner jacket over his usual shirt and replaced his ubiquitous jeans with trousers. He had grabbed a skinny tie on the way out as a last minute decision.

Just then, a car pulled up outside. The diminutive doorman glided over and opened the back door; Miroku saw the man's lip curl as he took in Inuyasha's silver mane and amber eyes on top of the crimson shirt he wore. The surprisingly flamboyant colour was mostly hidden under his sensible black jacket. He wore no hat, yet the dog ears that marked his half-demon status were hidden from sight – presumably pinned down under his thick hair.

"Yo! Miroku!" Trailed by a few wide-eyed photographers from the paper, the young man strode in and clapped his friend on the back. "Having fun yet?"

"Not yet," sighed the dark-haired man. "Where are the models you promised me?" His mouth itched; he missed the cigarette he always had.

In reply, Inuyasha jerked his thumb back to the door. The stiff doorman was actually looking flustered as a stretch limousine pulled up.

One creamy long leg extended from the door; it was quickly followed by the rest of the woman. Wearing a white gown, she was beautiful in a haughty way with soft almond eyes and porcelain skin. Luxuriant ebony hair was swept up in a chignon at the back of her head. She glided past the two men, seemingly oblivious to the way they were staring openly at her, leaving a waft of jasmine in her wake.

Miroku was the first to regain his senses. "Who was _that_?" Inuyasha looked equally dumbfounded, shrugging. His eyes were still fixated to the door the woman had gone through.

A cheerful-looking man with a camera around his neck the dark-haired man recognized as Hojo, an intern in the photography department – and the permanent object of Inuyasha's ire – walked up. "That was Higurashi Kikyou, the hottest model in Tokyo at the moment – both figuratively and literally." His press badge

The young man grinned wolfishly. "Well then, shall we? We don't want to keep Miss Higurashi waiting."

* * *

The party was everything Miroku had feared; stuffed full of socialites and boring talk. Most were middle-aged, the youngest being the photographers themselves plus a few giddy young socialites who fancied themselves the Paris Hiltons of Japan. He shuddered, glad he was not the one taking yet another photograph of those dizzy women pouting and flaunting their breasts to the camera.

Hojo, however, looked perfectly happy to be doing so.

Miroku walked over to Inuyasha; the hanyou was standing in the corner, nursing a wine glass. "Well, aren't you the perfect little wallflower," he teased.

Inuyasha punched his shoulder hard. "Shut the fuck up. You know I don't like these fancy things – I honestly don't know why that prick Sesshoumaru made me come. Even promised me a month's bonus for attending."

"Really?" His friend furrowed his brows; their boss almost never offered monetary rewards. Before he could think about the mystery, the silver-haired man suddenly stood upright, the wine sloshing dangerously.

"Gods – it's Kikyou."

The elegant chignon drifted into their field of vision for a moment before disappearing behind a guest's elaborate beehive.

Miroku chuckled. "So this is what it's about. You're after Miss Higurashi."

The hanyou gulped and drained his glass. "I – well – fuck."

"Go talk to her," his friend prodded. "I bet she'd be more than happy to talk to someone who isn't a hundred years old and drooling." Miroku peered more closely at Inuyasha. "On second thought..."

"Shut up, Miroku!" It was a mark of how nervous the hanyou was when he failed to back up his words with a punch. But the dark-haired man barely suppressed a laugh as he watched Inuyasha wipe at his mouth with his sleeve out of the corner of his eye.

Miroku laughed again, his eyes scanning the ballroom for the chignon – _it was a good thing models were so damned tall, considering how crowded the place is_, he thought.

Finally, he spotted it at the corner of the room, surprisingly out of the limelight. "There!" he said excitedly, propelling a protesting Inuyasha in that direction. It was not easy – the hanyou was resisting with his half-demon's strength – but they eventually got there, pushing through the milling throngs of people.

"Hey – excuse me, Miss Higurashi!"

She turned around at the sound of her name as both men skidded to a halt in front of her. They gaped openly.

The young woman was not Higurashi Kikyou, though there were some similarities; the same tilt of the jaw, the same sensuous mouth, the same porcelain skin, the same ebony silk hair. But the similarity ended there. Her eyes were cool blue and sparkling with mirth, unlike Kikyou's.

She was looking at them both expectantly, a question in those eyes. "Yes... do I know you?"

"You're not Higurashi Kikyou," blurted out Inuyasha, and promptly flushed dark red.

She laughed. "Oh – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done up my hair this way, people have been mistaking me for Kikyou all night," she said, poking the chignon. "I'm Higurashi Kagome, Kikyou's lesser-known sister."

"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Miyasuzu Miroku and the blushing gentleman is Hayashi Inuyasha," cut in Miroku smoothly. He bent and kissed her hand in a courtly fashion. Kagome giggled as Inuyasha rolled his eyes.

"Enchanted." She craned her neck, looking at the crowd before turning back to them. "If you're looking for my sister, she's over there, in the centre of the hall."

Miroku smiled. "I'd rather stay here, fair maiden." Inuyasha glanced over at his friend. "Yeah, me too."

Kagome blinked at them both. "... Okay. Let me guess; you two aren't obscenely wealthy playboys heir to some massive empires?"

"How could you tell?" asked Miroku in surprise.

"You don't have the look of someone who's never known hardship in his life. And anyway, neither am I – a spoilt heiress, I mean," she told him, handing him a glass of champagne. Inuyasha accepted one from her as well, sniffing the liquid dubiously. "I'm just a humble journalist, here because my sister wanted someone who could look at her without getting moony-eyed."

The dark-haired man chuckled. "Very astute, Higurashi-san. Inuyasha and I are photographers for the Shikon Times – off duty, though. We're here because our boss insisted we be."

"The Shikon Times? Would your boss be the famous Tsukino Sesshoumaru?" She waved a hand. "And please, call me Kagome."

"The one and only. Certainly, Kagome-san – and please call me Miroku." Miroku's eyes slid sideways, noticing Inuyasha fidgeting with his glass. An evil grin appeared on his face.

"I'm sorry to have to leave a radiant beauty like yourself alone, but I have a pressing engagement on the other end of the room," he said. Inuyasha's head snapped up, eyes filling with horror. "I'll leave Inuyasha to entertain you."

He was gone in an instant before the hanyou could get out a word, slipping into the sea of tuxedos and rich evening gowns.

Inuyasha took a large sip of champagne to cover up the fluttering of nerves as Kagome turned towards him. "Miroku, you bastard..." he growled under his breath.

She stared at him for a moment before reaching out to take the few strands of hair which had fallen out of his neat ponytail. "Is this natural?" she asked in an awed voice, fingering the silky smooth strands.

"Yeah." He mumbled uncomfortably. He was not used to women randomly touching his hair.

"Fascinating." Kagome let his hair fall back. "Are you a foreigner? The colour of your eyes is really unique – coupled with that hair, you can't be Japanese, can you?"

"I'm a native," he assured her. "My family is rather – _unusual_, that's why we have this colour of hair and eyes."

"You wouldn't be related to Watanabe Sesshoumaru, would you?"

Inuyasha shook his head. "No. We may have the same hair and eye colour, but his surname's Watanabe and mine's Hayashi. Coincidence, I guess."

Kagome grinned wickedly at him. "In my line of business, nothing's a coincidence."

"Okay..." The hanyou was not quite sure how to respond to this girl.

"When you walked in earlier, I thought you were a cosplayer on your way to a convention and took a wrong turn," she joked.

He laughed. "Nah. I was headed for the convention but forgot my giant transforming sword so I crashed this shindig instead." The champagne was lending him an eloquence he never thought possible; Inuyasha took another sip.

"You sure can drink," noted Kagome admiringly. "That's the third glass I've seen you down."

"Since I'm here, I might as well make the best of it," he answered. "So, which newspaper do you work for?"

"The Asahi Shimbun," she said. His eyes lit up in recognition and he nodded.

"Prestigious place."

"I know! It took me two years' internship and a few connections just to secure a place there," she said. "How's it over at the Shikon Times? Watanabe-san's a legend in the business."

"He runs a tight ship." Inuyasha decided he had had too much alcohol; he put his glass back on the table to prevent him from being tempted to refill it. "But it's all good. Me and Miroku were recruited right out of college as photographers and we worked our way up."

Just then, a figure glided over. The cool, impassive gaze of Higurashi Kikyou fell over Inuyasha, making him blush again. "Hello, Kagome. It looks like you are having a good time."

Kagome seemed to wilt in her sister's shadow. "Kikyou-onee-san, this is Hayashi Inuyasha, a photographer for the Shikon Times."

"Nice to meet you," managed Inuyasha, successfully keeping the blush from his face.

Kikyou did not shake the proffered hand; her eyes ran up and down him appraisingly. "With looks like that, Hayashi-san, you should be working in front of the camera, not behind it." She gave a faint smile. "Is the colour of your hair and eyes natural?"

"Yes." The hanyou was torn between being mesmerized by her beauty and ticked off by her rudeness. "As I was telling Kagome-san, I have an unusual heritage."

The model nodded, her eyes already focusing elsewhere. "Fascinating. Well, I must go. It was a pleasure to meet you, Hayashi-san." She vanished back into the seething throng.

Inuyasha fought back the hot blush creeping over his face and neck and focused on Kagome; she, in contrast, looked completely unaffected by her sister's visit.

"Striking, isn't she?"

"Yeah," he breathlessly agreed. The silver-haired man instantly regretted opening his mouth as Kagome's face darkened.

"Well, if you found her so mesmerizing, why don't you follow her?" she snapped.

He flinched, frozen in terror by her abrupt change of mood. She had been so friendly and nice and now she was a raging demon. Women were truly complex creatures beyond understanding.

Inuyasha recovered quickly, much to his credit. "Hey – what's your goddamn problem, wench?"

"My problem is that you're just like the others!"

"Me like the others? That's because you aren't as pretty as your sister, that's why!"

He wished he could take back his words the moment they left his lips. Kagome looked as though she had been slapped.

"Kagome-san – "

She spun on her heel and stormed away.

* * *

The dark-haired man laughed as he moved through the crowd. He was going to have to pay for leaving his friend there later but he did not care.

"The bugger's too shy to talk to girls anyway," he said aloud. "I'm just helping him practice."

Just then, a familiar voice caught his ear.

"– goodbye, Yamamoto-san." The portly, balding Yamamoto – head of a media empire and host of the night's over-the-top display of wealth – laughed and patted the young woman's hand; his massive bulk hid her face and body from Miroku's view.

He was moving before he realized it, pushing his way roughly through the crowd, ignoring the cries of outrage and protest he was generating. It was the same melodic voice that had apologised for bumping into him in a noisy Tokyo street the day before...

Nearly bowling over a petite woman in a hat, he found himself in front of the grand doors, watching her back disappear through them.

"Wait!" he shouted, running after her. Miroku found himself in the grand lobby – alone. It was devoid of all other people, including her.

The young man heard the doorman wish someone good night; he sped in that direction. He was holding a taxi door open for her to get in. Miroku caught a glimpse of her face as she turned, laughing at a comment the uniformed gentleman had dropped.

It was unmistakably her; the woman in the photograph. The woman whose face had been etched into his mind's eye ever since the day he took the photograph – and maybe even longer.

"Miss, wait!"

Too late – the taxi door slammed shut and it pulled out of the driveway, disappearing into the darkness. Miroku stood in its wake, staring helplessly after it.

The doorman gave a very loud and disapproving sniff. "I'm sorry, sir, but the last taxi was taken. May I call another one for you?"

Miroku whirled on him, his eyes wild. "The young woman in that taxi – where is she headed?"

"I am not at liberty to give out personal information – "

"Tell me!" he growled, advancing on the stiff man. A few other guests leaving the party shot him scandalised looks but the photographer did not care. The mysterious woman's identity was killing him and taking away his sanity; he had to know just who she was.

"Just tell him, Myouga-jiji."

A familiar voice piped up; Miroku's eyes flicked back at the lobby. Inuyasha stood there, looking decidedly worse for wear: his tie was unknotted, the top buttons of his shirt undone and his jacket slung over one arm. His cheeks were flushed from alcohol.

The doorman sniffed. "My new employers forbid the disclosure of visitor information, Inuyasha-sama."

Miroku blinked as his friend approached. "You... know him, Inuyasha?"

"Yeah – damn, these pins are killing me, can't wait to take them off – I do," grunted the hanyou, scratching the top of his head where his ears normally were. "Myouga-jiji used to work for my father a long time ago." The tone of his voice suggested that there was more to the statement than Inuyasha dared to say in public.

Myouga puffed out his brass button-festooned chest. "You dismissed me, Inuyasha-sama – me, Myouga, loyal servant to the great Inu no Taisho for many years! You are no longer my young master!"

The hanyou waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah. Just do me a favour for old time's sake and tell Miroku what he wants to know."

The man paused for a full minute, seeming to struggle with himself, before exhaling loudly. "Fine. For your father's sake." He turned to grudingly look at Miroku. "She was headed for Pacific Residence, Azabudai."

Inuyasha blinked.

The dark-haired young man nodded, committing the address to memory. "Thank you, Myouga-san."

He snorted. "Don't thank me, thank the young master. Now you both had better go before I get into more trouble." He pressed the taxi call button.

As they waited for the taxi to arrive – Myouga now completely ignoring their existence – Miroku smiled tiredly at Inuyasha.

"So... how'd it go with Kagome?"

The hanyou grunted. "Fucking bad." To his friend's shocked face, he added, "I don't think we'll be seeing each other again, not after what happened."

"What happened?"

"Eh, we were talking about random things in general – all that crappy small talk," he explained. "Then it turned to something, I can't remember what and we started arguing."

"Then?" asked an appalled Miroku, wondering just how bad it had been.

"I... called her a wench and asked why couldn't she be more like her sister." Inuyasha rubbed his temples. "Was that bad?"

The dark-haired man sighed. "Yep, that was definitely bad. Especially when you've never spoken to Kikyou – apart from that introduction."

"She's always so nice in those television interviews and stuff!" protested the hanyou. "Okay – she was kinda rude just now when I met her, but she could've been tired or something."

Miroku shook his head; the taxi chose that moment to arrive. "Women are a whole lot more complicated than you think, my friend," he said as he bundled Inuyasha into the back seat. "No wonder you have yet to get a girlfriend, being this clueless."

"Tameike Tower first, then Park Habio Azabudai," Miroku told the driver. The man nodded and the taxi lurched forward.

Inuyasha pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck you, Miroku," he said eventually, earning a sharp look from the driver in the rear view mirror. "If you're so great, you would have found one girl and stuck to her – literally – instead of doing the stalker thing for some woman who might well be invisible."

The dark-haired photographer peered closely at his friend, quelling the surge of anger rising. "You're drunk, Inuyasha. Get home and sleep it off." He mumbled something incoherent, rubbing his forehead tiredly. Leaning back in his seat, he stared out the window at the bustle of the night.

Hauling Inuyasha – who now seemed to be feeling the full effects of the alcohol and was roaring drunk – out of the taxi and into his apartment had been the easy part. The difficulty was in lying in bed, fully awake, and counting down the hours, minutes, seconds before he could call on the address committed to memory.


	3. Three: Flash

_Miroku dreamed of blood. It came from the strangest places; falling from the sky like rain, oozing from the ground, dripping from his clothes. _

_He beat frantically at the stains, watching in growing horror as redness blossomed over his clothing. _

_A sloshing sound; he looked up. The boy was back again, this time empty-handed._

"_So you can see the blood too?" he asked in an eerie little-boy voice._

"_Make it stop," muttered Miroku, falling to his knees. The crimson liquid pooled around his trousers and lapped at his hands. "Take it away."_

_The boy shook his head. "Now you know what I went through," he said. "Now you see it, don't you?"_

_A thin screaming rang through the young man's ears; the blood around his body turned into a thousand pairs of hands, gripping his body, pulling him down – _

He jolted awake, gasping for air. His clothes were soaked with cold sweat again. The dreams kept on changing, though. Like the blood he had been drenched in; fluid, mutable, inconstant. Miroku wondered how much more could he withstand.

He buried his face in his hands, composing himself. He was going to find her today – it simply would not do to present himself as a nervous wreck. He felt steady enough to haul himself to the shower, turning on the hot water and letting it wash over his body.

At least it was Saturday; he sincerely hoped she was not an early riser and would still be in.

Camera around his neck as per usual, he decided to walk there. He had seen the building before; one of his ex-girlfriends had lived in the neighbourhood. As he left the apartment, he grabbed the photograph and slid it into his pocket.

The walk was short but refreshing; though it calmed his nerves a great deal, he could not help but pull out a cigarette. He resisted the urge to light it, though.

Miroku felt a fluttering of nerves as he leaned on the doorbell; a sensation he had not experienced since he was a gangly teenage boy, on his first date. The young man scowled. He was Miyasuzu Miroku, suave photographer and lady-killer extraordinaire. He was not a naive kid.

Then the door clicked open, and he went to pieces.

She stood before him, her hair down; she was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and shorts. Her pretty face, devoid of makeup, instead wore a look of mild confusion.

His breath caught in his throat. It was her, the woman in the photograph. The image did no justice to the living woman in front of him.

"Hello, can I help you?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Dumbly, Miroku pulled the photograph from his pocket and handed it to her.

She took it; her fingers brushed his and electricity ran up his body from the point of contact. It took all his willpower not to react.

"This is..." she looked up at him, a question in her lovely brown eyes, "... I remember this – "

" – it was taken a few days ago." Miroku said. "I was the man you bumped into in the street."

Recognition flickered. "Oh!"

He offered her his most charming smile. "The photograph came out nicely – I thought you'd like to see it."

"It's beautiful!" she agreed, tracing the lines of the glossy paper. Abruptly, the spell broke. The young woman's hand dropped to her side as she stared hard at him. "Wait a minute – how did you know where I Iive?"

Miroku's smile began to fade as she advanced on him, fire blazing in the eyes he had just been admiring. "I – wait, let me explain – "

"You pervert!" she raged. "You followed me home!"

"Wait, it's not that – "

Smack! Stars exploded before his eyes as her palm connected with his cheek. Miroku's head snapped to the side; the sheer force of the blow making him stagger. His cigarette flew out of his mouth – again – and rolled away.

By the time he had regained his senses, she was back in the door frame, body tense and rigid in anger. "Lecher!" she hurled after him before slamming the door shut.

The dark-haired man stared bleakly at the closed door before the weight of the situation hit him; he slowly slumped to the floor, rubbing his stinging cheek.

"That went well..." he muttered.

* * *

It had been a mistake, Miroku reflected, to tell Inuyasha what had happened. The hanyou was practically doubled up on his couch, howling with laughter.

"It's not that funny, Inuyasha," grumbled the dark-haired man, gloomily sipping his beer. For such a petite woman, she certainly packed a punch; his cheek was still tender and throbbing. He adjusted his grip on the bag of ice held against it.

"I should've been there!" crowed the hanyou. "It's not every day you come across a dame like that!"

Miroku lost all patience. "That reminds me," he said snidely, "I wonder whether Kagome-san still remembers you."

His friend stopped laughing immediately, colour rising into his cheeks. "Damn. Shut up, bastard."

The other man shrugged, grinning from ear to ear – which soon faded. "Oh – shit. She took the photograph."

"So? You have the negatives. Go develop yourself another one."

"I was attached to that one," whined Miroku. It was true, in a way; he had carried it in his wallet and throughout the day, had kept taking it out to stare at it, prompting one of their co-workers to ask him, very pointedly, to stop drooling over the image.

Inuyasha rolled his eyes. "I need another drink." He hauled himself off his seat and pulled another can from the refrigerator, cracking the top off.

"More alcohol? I thought you'd sworn off the stuff for life – as you repeatedly mentioned between rounds of vomiting into the toilet bowl?"

"Shut up, asshole."

* * *

Miroku wondered whether he should just kill himself or let Sesshoumaru do it for him. Just what he needed – first day back on the job and he had been called into the boss' office.

The stone-faced man sat in his usual pose; back stiff, his hands neatly folded on his desk, gold eyes narrowed into identical pinpricks of annoyance. The photographer wondered what he had done this time to warrant The Look.

"Do you have all your field equipment with you in the office, Miyasuzu-san?"

The odd question surprised Miroku. "Yes, shachou. I never took it home."

"Flouting department policy. You know we cannot be held responsible for any thefts that take place in the office."

_What was this – punish-Miroku-for-minor-company-policy-infractions-day?_ thought the dark-haired man, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes, shachou."

"Hnn." Sesshoumaru reached into the inbox on his expansive desk and withdrew an unmarked folder. "My sources have unearthed a child smuggling ring in downtown Tokyo and we're guaranteed an exclusive scoop provided we get there by this afternoon. Unfortunately, Renkotsu-san is down with influenza."

Miroku's jaw dropped. "That means – I – shachou, you want me to – ?"

The impassive stare held his own. "Yes, I want you to take the assignment. Do not disappoint me."

The younger man took the envelope with shaking hands. "... Thank you, shachou!"

"Hnn." The elegant man leaned back in his chair, his expression never changing. "You may leave."

Miroku practically floated out of the office and down the hallways back to his desk.

"You look damn happy," noted Inuyasha from his laptop. "Some random woman offered to bear your child?"

"Better than that!" laughed the dark-haired man. "I have a field assignment!"

The hanyou's eyebrows shot up, disappearing into his fringe. "No fucking way. I've been stuck behind this fucking desk for three weeks and you get a field assignment? Fuck you."

Ignoring the excessive fruitiness of his friend's language, Miroku reached under his desk, pulling out a bulky leather case and dusting it off. "My babies," he crooned, taking out several massive lenses and various pieces of equipment. "Have you missed me?"

He selected a few choice lenses designed for outdoor use, slotting them into their canvas pouch and fitting the entire thing into his messenger bag. Miroku pretended to ignore the set of narrowed golden eyes watching his every move from across the desk.

"Later, Inuyasha," said Miroku brightly. "I have to meet my new partner in the lobby now."

His response was a single middle finger held aloft. Some of the female photographers in the vicinity made noises of disapproval.

* * *

"This is the place?" asked Miroku carefully.

The reporter, a rakish young man who had introduced himself as Takasegawa Kouga ("Just call me Kouga, none of that honorific shit," grinned the reporter), consulted the scrap of paper. "Yeah," he said eventually, stuffing the paper back into the pocket of his jeans. "That's the place all right."

They went around the back of the crumbling warehouse – and found several police cars parked in the yard. A policeman was milling about, checking his watch now and then.

"Oh – are you from the Shikon Times?" he called when the two men drew closer.

"Yep. I'm the reporter, Takasegawa Kouga, and this is my partner Miyasuzu Miroku, the photographer," said Kouga. They held up their press lanyards for confirmation.

The man nodded, giving their credentials a cursory glance. "Fine. Excellent. The perp will be out in a while; the others are taking them in, reading them their rights and the usual procedure." He jerked a thumb at the ajar corrugated metal door. "If you boys want to wait here a while..."

The reporter nodded, leaning against one of the parked cars. "Fine with me. Miroku?"

"Nah – I think I'll have a look around."

"Suit yourself," shrugged the other man. "Just remember to be back here when the cops come out, if you wanna keep this job."

Miroku acknowledged it with an airy wave, walking off in the direction of the docks.

The rotting place had clearly been deserted for a number of years; the air was thick with the stench of rust and neglect. A perfect hideout. He wondered how many children had passed through this miserable place and fought back a surge of anger.

He needed a smoke. Much to his surprise, Kouga had disapproved of Miroku's habit and made it clear there would be no lighting up in his presence. The photographer rummaged in his jacket pocket and jammed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

A rattle behind his head pricked his senses. He was not as alone as he had thought.

"Who's there?" called Miroku._ Damn – I should have learned my lesson from the fire and not bloody wander off on my own._

Silence greeted him. He gritted his teeth and carefully removed his bag, placing it to one side. It was a good time as any to practice the judo he had learned after the accident – part of his program to rebuild his body.

The faint crunching of a foot on gravel to his left galvanised him into action; Miroku whirled around and charged. His opponent was just as fast. A mere blur, he sidestepped and drove his fist downwards in a fluid move. Miroku twisted his body, avoiding the blow but his momentum carried him forward.

An elbow jabbed into the small of his back – hard – and he gasped. The cigarette fell from his lips and rolled away.

Miroku struggled to recover, driving his foot into the loose gravel and standing upright, appraised his opponent and prepared for his next attack.

Familiar brown eyes glared back, framed by a very feminine face and long brown hair swept up in a high ponytail. His jaw dropped open.

"You!" It was her; the girl in the photograph.

She frowned in confusion before recognition dawned. "That man from the street!" Her stance relaxed for an instant before snapping back. "You! Did you follow me here?"

"N – no!" Miroku waved his hands hastily. "I'm a photographer with the Shikon Times – I'm here to cover the child smuggling ring bust!"

The young woman eyed the lanyard dangling from his neck – belatedly, he realised she had a similar one around her neck as well.

"I see," she said dryly. "I thought you were one of the criminals when you attacked me without provocation...You do seem to have a knack for turning up everywhere."

He had the grace to blush. "I – I was involved in an accident not long ago... I guess I'm a bit paranoid." The blush quickly morphed into a lecherous grin. "As for showing up unexpectedly...

"That still doesn't explain how you knew where I lived; and frankly, I don't think it's a fabulous coincidence that we happen to be covering the same scoop." She had her hands on her hips, practically glaring daggers through him.

"It's a long story, would you believe?" he said weakly.

With a final glare, she spun on her heel and marched away towards the parked police cars, muttering under her breath all the while about perverted stalkers.

Miroku scooped up his belongings and fell into step with her. It was the second time they had met by chance; he was not inclined to let her leave that easily again.

"Miss, may I know your name?"

She glared at him. "Don't push it, mister, unless you'd like another slap."

He tried a different tack. "Those were some pretty impressive martial skills back there. I've never seen anyone move that fast."

Her mouth twitched a little. "My father was a karate master," she said brusquely. "My brother and I trained under him as long as I can remember."

They had reached the door of the main warehouse; Kouga flashed him a strange look.

"Oi, Miroku. What've you been up to? Trust you to find a woman in a place like this."

"It's not like that," said Miroku hastily, wincing under the sharp look she shot him. "She's... erm..."

"Takumi Sango, journalist with the Asahi Shimbun. I'm also covering the child smuggling ring case."

"Sango... that's a lovely name," interjected Miroku brightly. "I'm Miyasuzu Miroku."

"Sango-chan!"

A familar voice sounded; the dark-haired man flinched. Surely it could not be –

"Kagome-chan," greeted Sango. Higurashi Kagome emerged out of seemingly nowhere, looking very different in smart casual attire; her hair was loose over a pair of slacks and a shirt.

"Kagome-san?"

She blinked. "Miroku-san?"

Sango glanced between the two. "You know each other?" There was a frown on her face as though she wished it was not the case.

"We met at a function last week." Kagome beamed. "Ah, I didn't know you two knew each other as well, you must have met there." She turned to the bewildered-looking young man. "Sango-chan was also there, but she left early."

_And I followed her home_, thought Miroku.

Much to the dark-haired man's relief, she did not mention anything about the circumstances of their mutual acquaintance. Kouga strode up to the three of them, smoothing back his long hair. Struck by a sudden thought, Kagome narrowed her eyes abruptly. "Hayashi-san wouldn't be here, would he?"

"No, miss," the ponytailed man grinned. "I'm Miroku's partner, Takasegawa Kouga – call me Kouga. Would you like to go for something to eat after this?"

Kagome looked a bit taken aback. "I – well, you're forward, aren't you?" she managed, blushing a little.

"Only when I'm meeting beautiful young women like you – Kagome, you said your name was?"

"Yes..." she sneaked a quick look at the disapproving look on her friend's face. "Kouga-san, maybe another time."

The policeman sidled up to the four young people, a faint grin playing around his face. "Hate to interrupt you kids, but the perps are out."

They immediately broke apart from one another, very red in the face as they struggled to regain their professional composure. The Asahi Shimbun photographer – a stocky man – appeared, adjusting the focus on his camera.

The men walked out of the warehouse, escorting a bored-looking man dressed in a purple suit. His wavy jet-black hair was tied in a neat ponytail high on his head.

"Careful, gentlemen," he drawled, sweeping his hair away from his face with a toss of his head. "Don't crease the suit."

The officer clutching his arm chuckled dryly. "You'll be worrying about a lot more than your suit in a while, Naraku."

Reddish eyes stared back. "Hmm... I suppose I will." The gang leader looked almost pleased with the idea. Miroku's blood ran cold as he focused on the man's face; there was not a trace of fear or remorse in that cool gaze.

"Bastard," muttered Sango under her breath; her eyes were narrowed in hatred. The pen she was holding in a white-knuckled hand skittered madly over the pad.

Once he was satisfied with the rolls of film he had taken, Miroku reached over and gently eased the pen away. "Calm down, Takumi-san... it didn't do anything to you."

A blush rose into her face as the journalist sheepishly examined the ink-splattered pad. "I guess I overreacted," she confessed. "But people like – _him_ – make me so angry..."

"It takes all sorts to make this world," said Miroku darkly; Naraku flashed him a cocky smirk as he was bundled into the back of the waiting police car.

A female officer came out, carrying a sniffling bundle in her arms; a little boy with a shock of red hair.

"We owe our success to this little guy," she said with a smile, stroking his head and easing him down. He continued to cling to her pant leg, hiding his face in the fabric "He was supposed to be Naraku's latest victim but he outsmarted him. Tripped Naraku up with his toys and called us on his handphone, would you believe?"

Miroku grinned. "No wonder Sesshoumaru called it the scoop of the century. I can see the headlines now: 'Crime Boss Brought Down By Small Boy.'"

Kagome knelt down and touched his arm. "Hi there," she said. "I'm Kagome. What's your name."

A sniff. "Shippou."

"That's a lovely name." He peeped out from behind the officer's leg; in addition to the bright red hair, he also had green eyes. "It was very brave of you to fight back, Shippou-chan."

Out of the corner of his eye, Miroku noticed Kouga watching the little boy warily. He decided not to say anything; the man probably had his reasons, after all.

Meanwhile, Shippou seemed to have overcome the trauma of being kidnapped and was chatting quite happily with Kagome (her producing of a lollipop from her handbag probably had something to do with it).

The officer glanced at her watch and put a hand on his head, prompting a quizzical look. "It's time to go, Shippou-chan."

He blinked up at her. "Go where?"

"The hospital. We need to get you checked out to make sure Naraku didn't hurt you in any way," she said patiently. "And after that, we need to take you home."

Shippou's lip began to tremble. "Don't wanna go back."

"I'll come visit you in the hospital, okay?" smiled Kagome.

Finally, he nodded and let the police officer lead him away to the waiting car. The four young people watched – Kagome waving energetically to the small hand plastered to the window – as the rest of the cars left.

"You certainly have a way with children, Kagome-san," commented Miroku appreciatively.

"I have a younger brother. Shippou reminds me of when Souta was young." She brushed off her skirt, a wistful look in her eyes. "No child should ever have to suffer like that."

Sango had been standing a little way from them the entire time as Shippou had come and gone in an aloof manner; Miroku now noticed something in her face change as Kagome spoke. A distant look, like a window to another world had been opened.

He knew better than to ask her about it; the dark-haired man filed it away carefully in his mind. Miroku had a feeling that once Sango had entered his life, she would not be leaving it in a hurry.

Kouga had snapped out of whatever reverie he had been lost in and was engaged in chatting up a hesitant Kagome again.

"Go out with me, Kagome, and I promise you the best night of your life," he grinned wolfishly, waggling his eyebrows in what was clearly supposed to be a seductive move.

She rolled her eyes; despite her outward show of annoyance, Miroku could tell she was quite amused by his persistence. "Come on, Sango-chan, we need to get this written up and handed in before our deadline," she said, tugging her friend's arm.

"Mmm." The other girl had become suddenly reserved, her soft brown eyes looking at nothing in particular. Kagome addressed her next words to the men. "Perhaps we'll see each other again, Miroku-san, Kouga-san? After all, we'll be covering stories together."

Miroku beamed. "Look forward to it, Kagome-san, Takumi-san. Goodbye."

The dejected Kouga slouched back to the waiting car, propping one elbow against the hood. "Damn, that was one fine-looking woman."

Miroku smirked as he unlocked their vehicle and climbed into the driver's seat. "Better luck next time, Kouga. Hopefully the next one will even ask for your number."

He wondered whether Sesshoumaru would be sending him out again soon – the prospect of seeing Sango again was tantalising.


	4. Four: Shutter

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk. Shippou yawned widely as he threw the ball against the wall and caught it for what seemed like the millionth time.

The nice woman who had taken him to the hospital had left him with all these important-looking grownups in their white coats had insisted on making him stay. Even though they had been unable to find anything wrong with him, despite using all their fancy metallic instruments and strange tools.

'Observation', they called it. Shippou preferred the term 'held prisoner'.

He glanced over at the infantile colouring book one of the nurses had left him; garishly grinning black-and-white outlines of hideous creatures – and wondered why human children were not mentally disturbed by them.

Before his father had died, he had taught Shippou one important lesson: Never let anyone discover his true nature. It was sound advice; for centuries, youkai had been relentlessly hunted by humans. Even the kitsune, revered in ancient times as gods, had not been spared. The humans had turned their back on the kami and destroyed anything that could have posed a threat to their dominance.

Outwardly, Shippou looked like an ordinary little boy of five, unusually short perhaps – but in human years, was really coming to seventy. The obvious marks of his youkai identity; his pointed ears, his paws, his tail and his fangs, were disguised with a concealment charm. Keeping up appearances for appearances' sake.

Still, he mused as he bounced his ball, the reporter woman had been nice to him. She had even given him candy – a treat he had been missing for decades without knowing it. Reporters, in his experience, had always been nosy and they only paid him attention because they wanted answers to their questions

She had asked him nice questions: "What's your favourite colour?" "Do you like candy?" "Are you alright?". He liked them a lot better than the nosy people: "What exactly happened here?" "Where is your home?" "Where are your parents?"

And the best part was the reporter woman seemed to care about him rather than his answers.

Sighing, he decided it was best he should leave – but the bedrest had been nice while it had lasted. Pocketing the ball, Shippou slipped what few possessions he had into his pockets and climbed up to the window sill. By now, the hospital staff should have discovered there was no worried father named Takahashi Akira coming to pick up his runaway son.

Shippou hesitated for only a moment at the edge before transforming into a giant floating balloon and vanishing into the night, wondering whether Kagome would be unhappy to find him gone if she came to visit.

* * *

Sango caught herself staring at the rather crumpled rectangle of glossy paper one too many times as she ate her dinner – and scowled in self-admonition.

A part of her wanted to bin the offending photograph instantly (thus eliminating the last trace of that man from her life) but the rest stayed her hand; it was a masterpiece, Sango grudgingly admitted. The light and angle flattered her face without the entire layout being too staged; she liked the way Miroku had captured her expression.

She looked... almost pretty.

Although Sango had never been the type to worry about her appearance, she had completely ceased to spare a thought for it after the incident which left her essentially homeless and alone. Kagome, her best friend from childhood – and the only one who she had bothered to keep, because she was so stubbornly determined to support her friend – constantly nagged her about her looks.

"Really, Sango-chan, it wouldn't kill you to wear a skirt for once," the younger girl had groused just a week ago at lunch. Sango, clad in her favourite sweater and jeans had responded with a shrug.

Why should she bother to dress up when she was going to be spending her entire life behind the scenes? Besides, not even Kagome knew the real reason behind the perennial long-sleeved shirts and jeans.

When she came back to the present, Sango was annoyed to find herself smoothing out the crinkles in the photograph.

"I really should throw you away," she told the still image framed on the paper firmly. "You're taking up too much of my life."

What sealed the fact was the slow realization she was talking to a photograph – and actually expecting an answer.

Resigning herself to her hopelessness, Sango tucked it into a spare frame she found lying in a drawer and put in on her coffee table, along with a faded photograph of a family – father, mother and two children; a boy and a girl.

She would really have to ask Miroku how he had managed to take such a mesmerizing photograph the next time they ran into each other – if there was going to be another time.

And the reporter wondered, as she poured herself a glass of water, why her thoughts leapt to him after they had dwelled on the photograph a while. He was a stalker – _how on earth had he managed to find out where she lived?_ – and a flirt; Miroku may have charmed Kagome, but she was different. Unlike her sunny best friend, Sango had walked through thunderstorms. She had lost everything and more.

It was not simply because Sango had learned to lose, but more because she was content to lose it.

* * *

When Miroku arrived at his desk the next morning, he was pleased to find a brown envelope and a sticky note pasted to it waiting for him there.

The smile quickly faded when he scanned the note.

"Eh, bouzu. Where're you going?" grunted Inuyasha. The hanyou was never fully awake in the morning; he clutched an untouched cup of coffee in his hand. Miroku knew he would only be fully functional after downing it.

"Assignment. Be back in a few."

Crumpling up the note and tossing it into his wastepaper bin, the dark-haired photographer tucked the envelope underneath his arm and walked briskly out of the office.

His feet took him past most of the other departments and finally, the main lobby, where Kouga leaned against the wall, looking practisedly nonchalant.

"Miroku," said the other man by way of greeting, nodding at the envelope. "You read that yet?"

"No. Your note said to come as soon as possible."

"Ah." The reporter tugged on his jeans, frowning as though they had done him some great personal injury. "Come on, then, we're taking an early lunch."

The photographer raised an eyebrow but walked out of the building nonetheless. All the drama was intriguing him. As he passed a trash can, he removed his half-smoked cigarette and stubbed it out.

They chose a nearby cafe a few blocks down from the building. Kouga lounged in his seat, hands behind his head.

"Well, read the contents of the envelope first," he said.

Miroku slit it open and withdrew a sheaf of neatly stapled sheets. He scanned them carefully. A sentence jumped out at him midway through the first page and he glanced up.

"Wait, what – Naraku is a hanyou?" He choked a forced laugh. "Is this some kind of practical joke? I mean, youkai aren't real."

His friend stared back solemnly. "I know you know that youkai are very much real and alive today – albeit well-hidden. Your best friend Mutt-face is a hanyou."

The dark-haired man's face stilled. "Yes."

"I'm full wolf youkai, myself," revealed Kouga. "Not many of us left, not after our numbers diminished and we started marrying humans."

Looking at the reporter's sharp, angular features, Miroku could easily see him running wild, sporting a bushy tail and fangs.

"And so?"

"That kid the cops rescued from Naraku is youkai too – full kitsune. He disappeared from his hospital room last night."

Miroku sucked in a breath. "Oh gods – "

"Yep. The involvement of youkai in this makes the entire thing so much more complicated. The boss knows this is big – real big news. The kind that has the nation talking about it for weeks – that is, if it were to be headlines. I can just see it: Youkai Living Among Us." He broke off, scowling, when Miroku turned his head to flash the waitress bringing their drinks a dazzling smile. "And so, my ningen friend, he has decided to put us on this special assignment."

"What?" The photographer blinked.

"We're gonna be unraveling every sordid little detail about our friend Naraku and publishing the most sensational expose of the century," supplied Kouga with a grin. "Hope you like snooping around."

* * *

First stop was the hospital. Both men grinned when they saw the pretty young redheaded nurse manning the counter. "I'll handle this – women are my specialty," smirked Miroku. Kouga rolled his eyes.

The photographer leaned over the counter and grinned at her; one laden with devastating charm. "Good morning, miss."

She barely spared him a glance – but did a double take as her gaze fell on the sulky man behind him.

"Kouga! Is that you?"

"Ayame?"

He recovered quickly and tossed her a careless grin of his own as he approached the counter; it was Miroku's turn to roll his eyes discreetly. "How have you been?"

"Just fine." She returned to her work, briskly punching in information into the system. "Now, what can I do for you and your friend?"

Kouga's grin slipped a little. "Ayame?"

"I know you, Kouga. You only show up like this when you want something from me."

"Come now, Ayame..."

Miroku decided to try a different tack. "Hello, Ayame-san," he said politely, extending his hand to her. "Pardon our rudeness in not introducing myself properly – I'm Miyasuzu Miroku, photographer for the Shikon Times and Kouga's partner."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the wolf shoot him a 'what-the-hell' look.

"Pleased to meet you, Miyasuzu-san," returned Ayame politely – and she blinked as he raised her hand to his lips. A blush crept over her cheeks.

"Normally we wouldn't be troubling a lovely, extremely busy young lady like you – wouldn't we, Kouga? – but this is really very important." Miroku leaned over the counter, smiling at her. "Just five minutes of your time, Ayame-san; that's all we're asking."

Her face was almost as red as her hair at that point; clearly she was not used to such flattery, blatant as it was. Ayame blew out her cheeks.

"Fine, what the hell. Five minutes."

Kouga grinned. "Hey, great. I knew you'd understand." Taking out the notepad from his jeans pocket, he flipped it open to a blank page and pulled his pencil from behind his ear.

"So we know the Shippou kid's a kitsune," he said in a low voice. "How'd he run away? Does he have any parents?"

"He gave us his father's name – Takahashi Akira," answered the nurse as she called up the patient file on her computer, "but we're certain it's false. My guess is he's an orphan."

"How can you tell?" It was Miroku who had spoken.

Ayame hesitated.

"It's okay – we can trust Miroku," cut in Kouga. "He knows I'm youkai and he can keep a secret."

"... I couldn't smell the scents of other kitsune on him." Sympathy shone in her emerald green eyes. "The poor thing's all alone in the world."

"No wonder Naraku took him," growled Kouga. "Missing orphan runt's not going to draw much attention from the media. Bastard."

His partner's jaw tightened. "Do you have any idea where Shippou might be headed?"

"No, not a single one. None of the orphanages we've called so far don't have a boy of his description on their records." Ayame shook her head. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of much help."

Miroku smiled. "It was helpful nonetheless. We work for a newspaper – we spend our lives following scraps of information like that one. Have the police been here yet?"

"They came this morning; I told them everything I've told you."

He nodded. As they turned to leave, she called after them.

"You'll find Shippou, won't you?"

The dark-haired photographer raised a hand. "I'll find him – I promise."

Kouga snorted. "Big words, friend. I hope it doesn't get us into more trouble than the kid's worth."

* * *

Sango had just showered when a flurry of knocking sounded at her door. "Coming," she grumbled, stuffing the last of her breakfast bun into her mouth.

She opened the door and Kagome flew in.

"Sango-chan, guess what?" she squealed.

"You've won a Pulitzer prize?" teased her friend, amused by the younger girl's childish excitement.

"Better than that! I found out which hospital Shippou-chan's staying at!"

"... And what does _that _have to do with us?" Sango sighed, walking to her kitchenette to wash up the breakfast things.

"Not us, really," Kagome admitted. "But I did promise to visit him." She adjusted her scarf. "Care to come along?"

"Kagome-chan, you know how I feel about hospitals." She had too many unpleasant memories of them; bright white, sterile places smelling of sharp chemicals. Cold and inhospitable – despite their name – rooms where she huddled alone, blood-streaked and terrified. Waiting by a silent bedside, holding a small hand as cold as the metal railing; leaning her tear-stained face against it as faceless people in white hurried past.

Her friend stilled, her enthusiasm deserting her in a rush. "Oh – Sango-chan, I'm sorry!" Kagome rushed over to throw her arms around Sango's shoulders in a sloppy hug. "I forgot – "

Sango forced a smile, patting her hand awkwardly. "It's okay, really. A bit foolish of me to still be phobic of hospitals."

The younger girl eventually let go after a last squeeze. "I'll just drop by before work. I don't have to be in until after lunch anyway."

"You lucky girl," joked Sango, waving a soapy spoon playfully at her. "Who'd you bribe to get a half-day off?"

Kagome's face fell and she fidgeted with the end of her skirt; despite her friend's attempt to lighten the mood. "... My little brother Souta has an important game on and I promised him I'd be there."

"Oh." The older girl refocused on her hands; the dishcloth circled the plate mechanically. Putting down the plate with a louder clatter than was necessary, Sango forced a smile. "Have fun, then."

Her friend smiled back hesitantly. "I will."

"Ne, Sango-chan..."

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to be working this afternoon?"

"Of course." She put away the last of the cutlery and dried her her hands. "I need to finish writing that piece for Takeda-san."

Kagome giggled at her friend. "Takeda-san? Isn't he the one that keeps finding reasons to drop by your office, oh, a few hundred times a day?"

"The very same – and surely that's an exaggeration," Sango said grumpily. "I've let him know I'm not interested but he doesn't seem to be able to take a hint."

"He's not going to take no for an answer, I guess," grinned the younger girl. "I think you won't be getting much work done if you stay in the office today."

* * *

It was Kouga who noticed him first; a huddled mass of clothing close by the hospital dumpsters. "Hey, Miroku."

"Hmm?" The photographer finished lighting his cigarette, ignoring the look of distaste that flashed over his partner's face.

"That drunk there – he looks like a lead."

"Him? You have to be kidding me; he looks like he can barely see his hand in front of his face, let alone have any clue where Shippou might be."

"Trust me, I'm a professional. And my professional instincts say that guy has something to tell us."

As if on cue, the drunken man's eyes snapped open; bloodshot brown rested briefly on the pair, taking in the bulky camera and notepad.

"H – hey, you guys... you're reporters, yeah?"

Kouga squatted down – and snatched the pack of cigarettes from Miroku's pocket. "Yeah. Yeah, we are," he said, offering the man one.

Miroku sized up the man; he was wearing an expensive suit, albeit a rumpled, alcohol-drenched one. _Another one of Tokyo's salarymen out for a night on the town,_ he thought.

"Y'know, I saw tuh most amazing thing last night – or this mornin', can't remember which," slurred the man.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, yeah – a big pink balloon!" He gestured wildly with both arms. "I was just headin' home after some drinks and saw it come out that window." The man pointed at a window on the side of the hospital building.

"A pink balloon?" Kouga and Miroku exchanged looks; Miroku grinned and tapped the side of his head.

"You're laughin' at me." Bleary eyes flashed real anger. "Y'think I was making it up? Y'see here, I know what I saw!"

"Look, what's so remarkable about a pink balloon, sir?" commented Kouga. "It could be an escapee from the children's ward?"

"That damn balloon had no string – and it had arms and legs and a big pair o' eyes."

"Eyes?" Miroku was grinning openly now.

The man shook an unsteady finger at them both. "You kids these days don' get your proper education – you don't read the legends?" Kouga and Miroku shook their heads. "Ahhh, you youngsters. You don't know a kitsune when y'see one."

"That," exclaimed the drunk, waving both hands with a flourish, "was a true blue kitsune I saw last night, as sure as m'name's Kakugo Seiji."

The pair exchanged looks again – this time, they were both surprised.

The drunken man seemed to sense the change in the mood of his audience and he grinned, a swagger added to his step.

"Yeah, it's true. Kitsune, I swear. M'uncle used to teach mythology at Todai – he knows all about them."

Kouga tilted his head to one side. "Okay, thank you sir. Why don't you go home and sleep it off?"

The man accquiesed, stumbling off on his way.

"Think we can trust his word?" asked Miroku in a low voice.

Kouga nodded. "Too much of a coincidence. He isn't talking too much out of his hat, I'm sure." He squinted in the direction of the hospital building where the man had pointed. "Just to be sure, I'm going to ask Ayame for the kid's room number, then I'm headed back to the office. I need to research this a bit more."

Miroku laughed. "Somehow, the image of you studying amuses me."

"Laugh all you want – but I still earned my journalism degree through grit and hard work," remarked Kouga. He began the walk back to the hospital. "Coming?"

"Nah – I don't feel like staying in the office today." His thoughts went back to another neat pile of photographs featuring dumpy socialites grinning through too much makeup and diamonds awaiting his perusal.

The reporter shrugged. "Suit yourself."

* * *

Miroku sipped his chocolate milk and watched the world go by in the little cafe he had chosen. The entire story did not sit well with him: Evil hanyou? Vanishing youkai children? A whole hidden community of modern youkai that had survived the years?

Shaking his head, he lifted the cup – and glimpsed a familiar face from over the rim of his cup.

Familiar because it had haunted his dreams most nights.


	5. Five: Negatives

**Author's Note: **Yes, I'm finally updating this story. It's a short chapter as I slowly ease my way back into writing Inuyasha fanfic after the long hiatus.

* * *

Sango disliked crowded places – the main reason why she had chosen this hole-in-the-wall cafe in which to write.

When she caught a glimpse of a familiar pair of eyes watching her from over the rim of a glass, she all but wheeled around and ran for the door.

Nothing – not even the gods, or whichever celestial deity who was deriving twisted pleasure from toying with her – was going to make Sango speak with her stalker for the third time in one week. This went beyond common courtesy.

"Sango!"

She was doing her best to pretend she had not heard a thing; Sango fixed her gaze ahead. She was home free once she had assimilated into the throng of people on the sidewalk...

... a hand insinuated itself on her forearm. "San – "

Instinctively, she whirled around, seized his arm and neatly flipped him over her shoulder. Miroku crashed to the pavement hard, letting out an 'oof' sound as the wind was knocked out of him.

Despite feeling like the sky had fallen on his head, he managed to grin stupidly up at Sango.

"I guess it was really stupid of me to do that to a woman with a black belt in judo."

She narrowed her eyes. The photographer held his breath –

"... Yeah, you're right." Sango was fighting back a small smile. "That was stupid."

The small crowd of curious bystanders began to dissipate. Miroku scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off.

"I assure you, Sango, I am no stalker."

She sighed. "Yes, you've said that multiple times now." _This was stupid_, she thought. "Look, I just want some lunch. If you're not stalking me, why do you keep showing up wherever I go?"

He ignored the question. "So will you stop beating me up from now on?" he asked eagerly, following her.

"Perhaps, if it'll make you leave me alone, _Miyasuzu_-_san_." Sango sat down at a nearby table – and frowned when he sat opposite her. "Now. _Forever_."

"Anti-social, are we, _Sango_?"

"Just because we know each other – _barely_, I might add – doesn't mean that you have permission to harass me during my lunch break, _Miyasuzu-san_."

Miroku grinned. "Harass? You have such a way with words, _Sango_."

The waitress glided over to their table. "I'll have the spaghetti and a coffee," said Sango, completely ignoring him. Evidently he was either too full of himself or too dumb to realize what an impolite ass he was being.

"And the gentleman...?"

"Another chocolate milk, thank you, Harumi-chan," added Miroku with a roguish wink. She giggled, blushed and left.

Sango scowled. "Friend of yours?"

"I'm a regular here. It's a lovely place to work, or even just to sit and think. It's especially lovely for lunch dates."

Rolling her eyes, she pulled her notebook out of her bag, flipped it open to the last page and began to pore over it. Her fringe fell over her face as Sango wrote, occasionally crossing out words vigorously.

"Your food is here," said Miroku presently. He pushed the plate closer to her when she ignored him, the top of her pen flying across the paper.

The young waitress snuck a glance at Sango's face as she returned bearing their drinks. "Friend of yours, Miroku-san?"

He laughed. "You could say I'm working on it."

Tittering, she flounced away to answer the summons of another patron. Sango finally set down her notebook and turned her attention to her lunch. She was halfway through when she noticed Miroku watching her intently, a small smile playing on the corners of his mouth.

"Is there any reason why you're staring at me?"

Miroku shook his head. "No, nothing in particular."

"Then you wouldn't mind refocusing elsewhere."

"I'm afraid my camera lens is faulty," he chipped in, grinning, "and simply refuses to budge."

"You must spend hours thinking up bad puns." Sango took a sip of her coffee – black, with only a spoonful of sugar. Miroku found it a tad depressing.

"Not really – when you spend your time photographing subjects with as much personality as the camera, you get a lot of thinking done."

"What kind of photography do you do?" Her interest piqued now, she leant forward.

"Society events now. I used to be a photojournalist." Unconsciously, he clenched his right fist.

A pause. "I see," said Sango, tugging up the collar of her long-sleeved shirt.

Miroku grinned and the awkward silence evaporated. "Incidentally, what happened to that photograph?"

"I crumpled it up and gave it to my cat to play with," she deadpanned, hiding her smile in a forkful of pasta – his momentary look of dismay was entertaining. "I'm kidding. I don't even have a cat."

He smiled. "My ex-girlfriend had a cat. Beautiful white Persian. Every time we went out, I'd find cat hair all over me in the strangest places." Miroku waggled his eyebrows.

Sango ignored him – with all the condescending haughtiness of that animal, Miroku was amused to note – and took another sip of coffee. "So you're unattached now, Miyasuzu-san?"

"And available," he grinned. "So, Sango, if you're interested..."

"_If_ being the operative word here," she responded, taking out her purse. Despite the scowl she wore, Sango was enjoying herself with the light-hearted banter. It was... _refreshing_, somehow. "Excuse me – bill, please."

The same waitress from earlier glided up. "Consider this my treat, Sango, for a delightful meal." Miroku pressed some money on the tray.

She was not too comfortable with the idea of being indebted to him – goodness knew, he just might demand another meeting or something of that nature. The reporter would not put it past him.

"Well – thank you, Miyasuzu-san. That's very generous of you." She pointedly ignored the waitress' starry-eyed goodbye and the roguish wink her companion sent in reply. Sweeping out of the little cafe, Sango was unsurprised to find he was still following her.

"I must be getting back to the office," she said, checking her watch. "My lunch hour's almost over and I have a deadline to meet."

"Allow me to escort you, the Asahi offices are on my way," Miroku quickly interjected. "And no, it's not an inconvenience. I'm perfectly happy to be accompanying a lovely lady like yourself."

Sango made to deliver a biting retort and thought the better of it; she needed to conserve her energy for dealing with Kuranosuke. They walked down the busy pavement in silence – the throng of office workers returning after lunch made it difficult for anything else.

Soon enough, the sleek silver building of her building loomed overhead. The reporter heaved a discreet sigh of relief before turning to her companion.

"Thank you for taking the trouble to accompany me back to work, Miyasuzu-san," she began stiffly. Formal, cold without being rude; Sango was rather pleased with herself.

Miroku, on the other hand, instead of making a few polite perfunctory remarks (to hide suddenly clammy hands) as other men would have when faced with Ice Queen Sango, grinned and stood his ground. "It was my pleasure."

"Mmmm." She nodded curtly and spun on her heel. Back to the daily grind, and the relative sanity of work and Takeda Kuranosuke, whom at least she could figure out...

* * *

"Wipe that look off your face."

"Huh?" Miroku lifted his chin from the desk. Numerous photographs of aging corporate fat cats littered it this time; a good reason why the photographer was in no hurry to finish his work.

"That one. The one that looks like this – " Inuyasha put on an exaggerated besotted face which was so ill-suited to his personality, his friend actually edged his chair backward.

"Damn, Inuyasha. Don't _ever_ do that again."

"I won't if you won't," he growled. "Turned my damned guts over just doing it. Goes to show how much you're making me sick. What the hell _did _you do anyway?"

Miroku simpered, just to make the hanyou grimace. "Lunch with Sango."

"No shit. She didn't eat you alive then?"

"... Well, she _did_ throw me to the ground."

Inuyasha guffawed. "Yep, she sounds like my kinda girl."

"Oh, please," retorted his friend acidly. "You're a real charmer with the ladies, as I'm sure Kagome-san will attest to. "

He bristled. "... Would it kill you not to mention_ that_, asshole? That was just one time. I sure as hell ought to – "

"Less chatter, more work," growled a voice. "Or is this a photographer thing?"

"Kouga. What's up?" greeted Miroku.

"I'm cool, thanks." The lanky journalist grinned widely, leaning on the wall of Inuyasha's cubicle. "Hard at work, eh, mutt?"

Inuyasha actually snarled. "Not in public, asshole."

"I'm sorry, my mistake," came the smirking reply. Ignoring him altogether, Kouga's next words were addressed to Miroku. "Bad news. Ayame's in trouble."

"What? What happened?" Miroku's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Oh, you didn't – "

"Her supervisor caught me pumping her for information. She won't be able to help us anymore, or she'll lose her job."

"Smooth, wolf boy," sniped the white-haired young man. "Real subtle."

"Your bandanna's slipping, friend."

The photographer leaned back in his chair. "You know, I'm really beginning to think we should leave this to the police. We're up against a major syndicate, my friend, just a reporter and a dumb photographer."

"The police? They'll take forever." Kouga picked up a bulging manila folder from his partner's desk and slapped it. "They're too busy with their banquets and balls for awards they didn't even deserve."

A photograph slipped out; it showed the police chief grinning at the camera, a young girl draped on each arm. Miroku frowned at it.

"People like that kid, human and youkai, slip through the system all the time and no one gives a damn. It's like they're invisible." He leaned closer. "Do you want to close one eye and go back to your hoity-toity society galas?"

Memories of the past flickered in Miroku's mind; long-dead, the excitement of a career put behind him.

"... Any leads?"

* * *

"Naraku-sama."

The lanky man lifted his head. "It was about time you got here, Kagura. Has everything been taken care of?"

She smirked, pulling a bunch of keys from the belt of the officer lying closest to the cell. "Kanna's handling our exit now."

"Good." The cell door swung open; he strode out easily. "We need to find that child soon." Naraku's eyes glowed red – the colour of blood. "First, he will pay for humiliating me and then for taking what is mine."

* * *

Shippou huddled in the back alley of the hospital (he was worried Kagome wouldn't be able to find him if he strayed). The temporary hodge-podge shelter of cardboard, deliberately arranged to disguise the fact he was there, offered little shelter against the light drizzle.

He almost missed the clean, warm-smelling sheets of his hospital bed.

Luckily, his new acquisition was comforting enough to offset the cold; the tiny pink crystal shard Shippou had taken from Naraku's neck had called to him. It felt odd, like something in his soul stirring, and he had snapped the cord without a second thought.

In the semi-darkness, it appeared to be _glowing_. Fascinated, the little kitsune rubbed the smooth edges – and stifled a cry as warmth flowed through his fingers.

Power – the strength to do anything he wished. Shippou glanced furtively around to make sure no one had seen him and tucked the shard into a secret pocket of his jacket.

For the first time in years, he felt confident enough to stand alone.

* * *

"Gone?" Kagome repeated in disbelief. "But – how – ?"

"We don't know," said the nurse sheepishly. "But the police have been notified, Higurashi-san, and they're currently investigating the case."

"I see." She felt the familiar journalistic curiosity welling up, mixed with genuine worry for the boy. "Thank you."

The journalist walked around the corner, doubling back when she heard the telephone ring, keeping out of sight of the reception desk.

"... I see... certainly. No, no... no problem at all. Yes. Thank you."

The sound of heels as the nurse left her station signalled the all-clear, and Kagome stole over to the desk. She was lucky the children's ward files lay right on top. "Okay... so the ward's on the fourth floor, right wing..."

"It was no trouble at all, Azuma-sensei."

_She was back!_ Kagome gulped and fled in the opposite direction of the voices, trying to walk calmly to the lifts.

Not altogether a fruitless mission; at least she knew where the children's ward was. Now the problem was getting inside...

"Yaaaaa!"

"Huh?" She gasped as something small and fast-moving collided with her legs. "Ouch!"

"Rin is sorry!" squealed her assailant. "Are you hurt, Onee-chan?"

Kagome smiled. "Not at all," she said, squatting down to face the little girl, "I've had worse from my little brother when we were little."

She beamed back. "Rin is so glad! She was sure the nurses were going to tell her off again for running in the corridors..."

"... which you shouldn't be doing... Rin-chan, right?"

"Yep!"

The young woman stood up. "Now, where's your Tou-chan and Kaa-chan?"

"Rin doesn't have any. Rin lives here in the hospital."

"... Oh." Kagome rested her hand on the little girl's head.

"But it's alright! Rin has plenty of friends, and the nurses take good care of us."

"Really? That's lovely."

Rin took hold of Kagome's hand shyly. "But Rin's special friend is – "

"Rin." The tall man appeared from around the corner, his gold eyes expressionless. "... My apologies. Has she been bothering you?"

"Sesshoumaru-samaaaa!" The little girl instantly let go, running to his side.

Kagome was dumbstruck. "... Tsukino-san..." she barely managed.

Shippou was all but forgotten; just what was the connection between the dour, aloof newspaper boss and the hospital orphan?


	6. Six: Click

Sesshoumaru frowned. "Have we met?" One arm slipped from where it was folded across his chest to attempt to keep Rin from clambering up his trousers. Kagome fought back a highly inappropriate giggle. "Or are we in the same business?"

"I'm sorry – I'm H – Higurashi Kagome, journalist, Asahi Shimbun."

"Ah. That would explain how you know my name."

"I didn't mean to be rude... I was just, _surprised_, to see you here..."

"As most usually are." He looked down at the expectant little girl. "Go back to your room, I shall drop by in a little while." She pouted and complied.

Sesshoumaru – now significantly much more intimidating – stared at her. "I must ask a favour of you now, Higurashi-san, not to speak of this. Not because I do not trust you," he hastily added as Kagome made to protest, "but such circumstances are easily... _misconstrued_. Especially in our line of work."

"... I understand." _I don't understand._

* * *

"I don't understand, Kouga." Miroku eyed a suspicious object and shuddered. "Why are we here again, especially after what happened with Ayame-san?"

"It's all we have to go on, I'm afraid," came the grunted reply. "Besides, something's not right about this place..."

"It's a dumpster. That should give you a hint."

Kouga ignored him. "There's a strong residue of youki here, stronger than I've picked up in a long time. Old too. Perhaps one of the taiyoukai, or some older power..."

His partner heaved a sigh. "Look, you show up, drag me into this secret conspiracy of youkai-alive-and-well-living-among-us and now you don't bother explaining your jargon? That's just cruel."

"Sshh." The youkai furrowed his brow. "Do you hear something?"

Both men tensed and ducked into the shadows. Voices, partially muffled, grew louder as they came closer.

" – escaped from custody. You know what's the best part? Apparently, he had the keys to the cell. Walked out, just like that."

"What? How?"

"Connections, I bet. Naraku's underlings got him out."

Miroku and Kouga exchanged glances.

* * *

Sango stared dumbfoundedly at her editor. "What do you mean, escaped?"

"Naraku walked out of his cell sometime last night. The keys were whisked off the dead guard. Current whereabouts unknown." He tossed her finished copy back at her. "You might want to add that in."

"But – that's impossible!" Fuming, she snatched it up and stalked back to her cubicle, creating a flurry of terror in her wake.

Kagome, still a little dazed from her encounter with Sesshoumaru earlier, arrived back just in time to witness the trail of destruction. "Wow."

She was spared a cursory glance as Sango marched back to her cubicle and began attacking her computer keyboard. Wisely, she turned – and came face-to-face with a concerned-looking Kuranosuke.

"Takeda-san."

He flashed her a quick smile. "Please, call me Kuranosuke. Uh, Kagome, if you would be so kind as to enlighten me, what happened with Sango?"

"I have no idea," she answered, suppressing a small quirk of annoyance. "Maybe you should ask her."

"I believe I will."

She blinked in surprise. "You will? Oh, I see..."

He walked out of her field of vision, taking brisk confident steps. A smirking Kagome hid in her cubicle from the explosion she was eagerly anticipating.

It came a lot sooner than she expected.

* * *

"Damn, I wasn't expecting that so soon," Kouga growled. "This means the kid's in big trouble."

Miroku took his time to answer, apparently occupied with cleaning his camera lens. "... It's fine. Backup will be arriving soon, won't it, Officer?"

His partner did not even blink. "Is my cover that bad?"

"Oh, yeah. I mean, journalists are supposed to be aggressive, sure, but to keep your notebook firmly in your pocket the whole day? You underestimate me, Kouga."

"Your boss said you were smart. I figured you'd get the hint you were supposed to be part of my cover."

"What, don't tell me Tsukino-shachou's a member of the police force as well?" asked Miroku, his eyebrows raised exaggeratedly.

Kouga punched his arm. "Idiot. Take this a little more seriously."

The photographer considered it for a moment. "Wait, what does this entail for me?"

"Nothing. Just do your job so I can do mine. Of course, you won't be coming along when things get more serious." The undercover policeman scratched his head. "Any more questions?"

"Just one." Miroku folded his arms. "Why me?"

"Simple. You're one of the few privileged people who know about the secret youkai community – and now, how involved it is in modern society." He paused to let it sink in. "Second, you're also one of Naraku's victims."

"I – what?"

"The Kotsuki case a year ago, when an entire family was slaughtered by the youngest son and the house set on fire afterwards..."

Miroku's eyes widened; he clenched his hand into a fist.

"When we asked for someone to provide cover, your boss mentioned you had unfinished business."

* * *

"We have unfinished business, Naraku," she said through clenched teeth. Finally alone in her cubicle (or at least physically, within the small space), Sango sat down at her computer and began to make the necessary corrections to her report.

She was not even sure why she was so worked up about this particular kidnapper – there were plenty she had encountered, and all had elicited the same strong reaction.

There was just something about those sinister reddish eyes, and the cocky look in them.

Naraku was a big fish by anyone's standards, and his escape was a huge blow to the credibility of the Tokyo police. _Surely,_ she mused,_ it would spur all possible effort towards recapturing him. _

_Well, I have to put my faith in them all the same. It's not like I can hunt him or something._

She paused to check her work. Satisfied, Sango printed out the copy and made the trek to her editor, entertaining the mildly amusing notion of herself, dressed in hunting gear, whacking Naraku over the head with an oversized –

– her eye caught the boomerang hanging over her colleague's desk, who had gone to Australia on a family holiday the past summer. _Yes, an oversized boomerang._ The now completely ludicrous notion complete, she laughed aloud.

Kagome eyed her friend suspiciously. The ominous mood she was in seemed to have disappeared completely, and she wondered what on earth had the power to accomplish _that_. Still, anything that cheered up melancholy Takumi Sango was a good thing in her book.

"Sango-chan, how about dinner after work?" she called once she spied her fellow reporter emerge from their boss' office.

"Mmm? Sure, I guess..."


End file.
